


The Curse of the Black Sun

by Rori



Category: Bleach
Genre: (kinda), (not much), Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Monster Hunters, Angst with a Happy Ending, Enemies to Lovers, Familiars, Hell Secret Santa 2k19, Inspired by The Witcher, M/M, Slavery (Hollows), Team FUCK AIZEN, ichigin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-22 14:21:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22050664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rori/pseuds/Rori
Summary: Above Gin, only the God King rules;And under him, there's the Hollows.It is a simple, ordered life.You obey the one above, and you hunt the ones under.That is, until Gin met Ichigo.
Relationships: Ichimaru Gin & Matsumoto Rangiku, Ichimaru Gin/Kurosaki Ichigo
Comments: 3
Kudos: 25





	The Curse of the Black Sun

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ThatFiend](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatFiend/gifts).



> A very Merry Christmas to you, Fiend <3
> 
> I'd like to thank Owari as well for her helpful enabling skills which turned this into a chaptered fic. And a monster. (but I'm not complaining) (much).
> 
> In this 'verse, the Thirteen are a special squad put together to hunt/capture Hollows, which are born from human parents. Gin becomes one of the Thirteen through his training - and he will eventually meet a Hollow a little more powerful than the others and start questioning the logic of his world. :)
> 
> As always, reviews and kudos are much appreciated!

Legends tell of a monster born under a black sun, with long claws and longer fangs; a monster of golden eyes and heir of fire, bathed by night and mad with hunger; a monster that would destroy mankind - rich or poor; men, women and children; of noble or low birth; death does not discriminate.

A monster, who still mingled enough with humans that his legacy is haunting them to this very day -

When he reached the tender age of nine, Gin understood it was no legend at all - but rather, the kind of shallow prophecy that kept his kind on the throne. They lived longer, they were stronger, kinder - being born Hollow was a damn shame and many took their children’s lives for it, unwilling to see them suffer a lifetime of misery and rejection at the hands of their betters.

Others were not that brave. 

“Today isn’t your lucky day, is it,” Gin heard his master whisper as they entered the dark room, as the mobile above the crib gleamed lightly in the near-darkness of the nursery; it was made of glass, pearls, twigs and fresh flowers all hanging there, undisturbed and silent.

Gin took a few steps forward, breathing in the strong fragrance of lavender of the room - the leather of his new armor was still a bit stiff, rough, untouched, and it creaked as he walked. His master gently pushed the mobile aside, and Gin stole a glance at the baby sleeping there. Its round cheeks were rosy and fat, its soft lips upturned in a small pout - long lashes of black brushed its skin, the same color as its hair. 

“Look, boy,” his master’s strong voice came out in a hushed whisper as he removed his gloves. 

His broad fingers went to gently stroke the small head of the baby, who blinked at them both, its eyes a warm shade of brown flecked with copper. So, Gin looked and blinked back at it. He had expected a monster, horns poking already at its brow, dark and twisting upwards in a clear demonstration of evil; maybe a tail and pointy ears, maybe glinting scales and claws. 

“I am looking, Master,” Gin answered, willing his tone bored, his eyes never leaving the baby - he had never seen a newborn Hollow before. 

“See how easy it is to mistake them for one of ours?”

The hand of his master was not gentle anymore; he pulls up the lips of the baby, examines its gums and the small teeth already piercing the flesh, tested their sharpness with the pulp of a finger. He did the same with its fingernails, then put a palm on its belly. 

“It is like the father said,” his master muttered, sighing heavily. “A reasonable doubt,” Gin was reminded.

They had been invited in long after sunset, hurried inside through the backdoor - the rumour would spread soon enough of a Hollow child born into this household. They would be well compensated by the Crown, in gold and care alike. After all, the Thirteen had no purpose in killing the breeders, only their progeny. 

Many mothers took their own lives after birthing such monsters, though studies had long since proven that it was neither parents’ faults, nor was it destiny or a higher power. His master referred to it as a disease, one that had been plaguing their kinds since millenia - and by any other name it still reeked all the same : overgrown bones mask covering small, innocent faces; golden eyes on a sea of ink black; tooth and nails growing into sharp fangs and long claws. 

The scholars studying under the Twelfth had put numbers to work, and the grim outcome had been that a child in about 20 would be born Hollow, no matter its parents situation. It was not a fault in the mother’s womb, nor in the father’s seed; neither was it because of low birth and poverty. It was not caused by some disease in the water, or some sorcery in the air, either.

Of course, it did not stop girls and boys alike to be valued through the purity of their bloodlines. They were often proven wrong; Gin’s master could hardly name a household in the capital that had not seen a Hollow child in the last century. 

This one did not wail, did not cry, just watched them in silence as they performed their ministrations.

“Here,” his master said, taking Gin’s fingers to touch the child’s pointy teeth, its sharp nails. “Do you feel it?”

Gin nodded, feeling his mindspace go vacant at the sound of a dagger pulled out of its sheath. They would taste its blood, find it acidic and a too dark shade to be wholly human - then, his master would decide if the child was to be taken back to the Keep, or to be put out of its misery immediately. 

Looking again into the warm brown eyes of the baby, Gin saw no monster at all.

.

When he reached the age of seventeen, Gin became what he had apprenticed all of his life for - his name was put forward when the Third died, and so the Third he became, the youngest master ever made under their God King.

He dutifully took his second sword, made of Whispering Steel harvested deep in the southern mountains, and did as he had been instructed all those years - Gin asked, _what is your name, what are you_ , and then he listened until the steel called back.

 _What am I, what am I_ , something answered, the voice a twin of his own before it became distinctly female, as had his first sword’s voice when he had been made apprentice under the Fifth. Shinso would remain small and hanging at his side when the second sword took its rightful place with them; and then they would then share everything but their names.

 _What I am,_ the Whispering Steel sword finally said, her mocking tone singing deep in his bones. _What am I_ , it insisted, laughing almost, tongue and teeth clicking together -

 _I am what you cannot be_.

.

There was a reason why they harvested the children born Hollow - their skins proved resistant to simple blades and their bones, when grinded to dust and mixed with iron and copper, could be turned into fine pieces of armor. Jewelry could be carved out of it as well, but neither the Thirteen nor the nobles had had a taste for it. 

They were not _that_ cold-hearted - just scholars, scientists, soldiers gifted with a higher purpose.

“This one is old - might need more than a collar to restrain it.”

Gin felt his lips go downward. “ _Ara_ , I hope not,” he said, his fingers already on the hilt of his taunting second sword. 

“As long as it has not eaten its way up to Menos, the collar should be fine,’ the Seventh tempered, first sword already half out of its sheath.

It was a rare sight, nowadays, an adult Hollow not bound by chains and collar; the contraption invented by the previous master holding the title of the Twelfth kept the Hollows docile and tame, as all beasts should be. 

The apprentice of the Seventh stepped forward into the dimly lit street, sword at the ready - he was experienced enough to track a runaway Hollow on his own, but as a Menos could prove difficult for one only armed with his first sword, the Seventh had accompanied him and asked if Gin wanted to join in. 

Then, he felt it. 

The Hollow.

“Oh?”

“Shit,” the Seventh spat, and his bamboo helmet turned the sound into a weird ricochet of spit; it was not yet a Menos, but still a bit too strong - nothing that mattered much.So Gin dutifully took a step back. 

The heel of his polished boot went into the dirty, muddy water of a puddle - it had rained quite a lot in the last few weeks, as it always did in June, and nobody hesitated much before throwing their soapy dish or laundry water outside. The streets pavement turned greasy and bubbly, but in the end it never mattered much - the June rain would wash it all off in a matter of minutes.

The ripple his heel sent in the soapy water made whatever it reflected all wrong, turning the night sky into something even more twisted and warped than it already was. The light of the street lamps was smeared, and for a second it looked like one of the childish paintings that Ran sometimes gifted him. The only colors they’d had were yellow, red and sometimes blue; and whatever else they could scrap and blend together. Nevertheless, Ran always managed to use the right shade of green for the grass, the most beautiful pinkish orange for the sunsets, the deepest black when she wanted to paint the night sky. The stars were always the trickiest, as white costed way too much - so she’d crusted small crystals of salt and sugar amidst the darkest shade she’d got out of mixing blue-red-yellow together.

The memory blurred at the first pained moan of the Hollow. It was not powerful, and like most beasts was not overly fond of discretion and intrigues - the Seventh and his apprentice had tracked it down in less than a day, and, should his powers prove useful enough, they would drag it back to the Keep. 

“I don’t suppose they need us,” Gin said to no one in particular, his fingers closed around the hilt of his useless, nameless second sword. 

_What am I_ , it taunted him in return, its mocking voice like fingernails on a blackboard. 

“They certainly don’t need _you_ ,” he decided, breathing in the crisp night air. 

Gin could almost taste it, the decadent smell of a Hollow gone rogue, the unpleasant warmth of its death breath filling the street - not yet a Menos, as the Seventh had supposed, but not too far off either. 

Hardly worth the effort of hunting it. 

But a welcomed distraction - casting one last glance at the stilling water of the puddle, he willed Rangiku and her silly drawings away from his mind. 

“You are not joining them?”

Gin snorted. “I do not wish to interrupt their lesson.”

“Uh. Is that what we call it, these days?” the white fox familiar huffed, already hugging his shoulders. 

Its overly soft fur is brushing against his jaw, and Gin hastily pushed it away before it reached his face and made him sneeze.

“You are no fun, Gin,” it whined right into his ear, the high-pitched sound resonating in the empty street. 

He didn’t grace his familiar with an answer. Momiji liked to babble too much - that, and floating next to his ear to whisper silly nonsense at the break of dawn on a day off. Not that Gin would have slept much; being part of the Thirteen was an everyday mission, be it testing newborns for signs or keeping himself entertained with the Hollows of the Keep. 

“They will have to kill it,” Momiji said, his nose in the air. “It won’t let itself be caught.”

Gin paid him no mind. Close enough to the Menos rank and above, Hollows tended to develop a sense of self that could become annoying - they had _opinions_ , and neither most of the Thirteen nor the God King were too fond of that. 

“I guess none of them particularly want to, anyway,” Momiji chirped, sounding a bit worried. 

He never did quite like the silence - the Thirteenth liked to think that a familiar reflected the thoughts of its master, as it had been made from him. It was one of the reasons why familiars could not lie or deceive - the moon koi fishes of the God King had been known to, but nobody could be too certain.

Is something still a lie, if your mind wills it to be the true hard enough?

“I wouldn’t know,” Gin answered after hearing a few other screams from the Hollow. 

It wouldn’t be too long, now - some had a particularly hard hide to break, but they tended to tire too quickly to be really challenging. 

His old master had told Gin many things, but the truth of where those powers and abilities came from was not one of his shared secrets - he had learnt, later, that nobody really knew. A Hollow child allowed to grow up would develop these abilities, become restless, mindless - and soon enough, it would need to feed. 

And, if it fed enough, it would grow to be a Menos. 

Which would become an Adjuchas.

And then, if the world and the Thirteen and the God King were blind enough, it would become a Vasto Lorde - a monster clothed in human form, powerful enough to rival two masters at once. Maybe three. It was an unspoken agreement that no Hollow were to be allowed to reach such a level of power - it had not happened in centuries, but mankind’s memory tended to be short-lived and fibble. 

When his master had ascended as the new God King, he had told Gin such - and much more.

“Is that sword of yours still nameless?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Gin answered sharply, his hand resting on the hilt of the much shorter Shinso who was not prone to such theatrics. 

“That’s weird,” Momiji remarked, as if Gin had not already reached that obvious conclusion - it was probably not unheard of, but his unwillingness to draw his second sword had made the other Twelve curious and yet strangely wary of him. 

He heard their whispers sometimes, carried to him by either Momiji or the Snake Wind that came from the South - the same strong breeze that carried all those bloated clouds here, in June. The Sixth was feigning disinterest, as he always did, and most of the others did not have to feign it, unless the Third became the subject of their drunken mumblings. What they said, then, was of no consequence - and almost funny, in a way.

_Maybe it is too powerful to be used here._

_Maybe it needs to recharge._

_Maybe he hates it, like Sui-Feng?_

_Maybe_

M

A

Y

B

E

“What am I,” Gin asked himself amidst the silence, stroking the soft white fur of the fox familiar at his neck. 

For that, he had no answer - Whispering Steel could be a little complicated, a little bitchy for sure, but he had been given his second sword for a reason. 

The Seventh was back in the blink of an eye, his bamboo helmet and gloves stained with fresh blood - it smelled a little, too, and Momiji wrinkled his nose at it in disgust. The apprentice had sustained light injuries, nothing threatening enough to cause them to call the Fourth on the scene; he’d probably go to her in the morning to spare his master the unnecessary delay before they could report the results of their hunt to the First, who also happened to be the Commander of the Thirteen. 

Above him was only the God King.

“This feels strangely unfinished,” the Seventh voiced in concern, turning around to watch the streets and skies; the stars had starting disappearing as the sun rose, slow but absolute, in the East. 

Gin offered him his usual sly smile. “You say that only because you let dear Iba finish the job.”

“He did a good job,” Sajin snorted as Gin threw a purposeful glance at his stained armor. 

“But not a very clean one,” Momiji picked up, a small hint of disdain in his voice. 

“He will learn.”

“Don’t we all,” Gin smiled, shrugging lightly before turning around. 

This had been fun, if not a tiny bit boring. 

“Right. I will see you around, Ichimaru.”

Gin lifted his arm in a mock goodbye, not bothering to throw a last glance at Sajin. Momiji did, and Gin could feel his restlessness before the familiar whispered :

“It smells-”

“I know,” answered Gin, his heeled boots tapping a fast rhythm on the pavement as he returned to the Seventh’s side. “ _Sajin-_ ”

The air was heavy, sugary, overly sweet; like flowers in Spring, like ripe fruits close to rotting, like persimmon glazed in honey - 

Then, the building next to them exploded in fire. 


End file.
